


The Blame Game

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this inception_kink prompt, "Plotless spanking."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blame Game

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: None of my doing.  
> Notes: Set pre-Inception. Spanking.

He's so hard, he's gone mindless with it. Has been swept away to a place where his past, his mistakes, his betrayals (past and future), his own fucking  _name_  don't even matter.

The only thing he wants more than to be allowed to come, is to  _never_  come, and let this--the thigh pressing into his stomach, the gentle hand on his back, and the less gentle hand on his ass . . . this, oh,  _this_ \--continue forever.

The hand on his ass smooths cheeks reddened by repeated strikes, neither rough nor soft, but always falling with the same timed consistency: enough to keep him hard, but not enough to let him come. For hours, it feels like, he's been tortured thus. For hours he's been hovering on the edge of a bright, screaming, supernova of a release. . . .

. . . only to be teased by an impassive, authoritarian hand, as measured and calm as it is heavy and callused.  _Familiar_.

"Tell me why you deserve this."

This part is also familiar. He knows what's demanded of him as a price for the pain he can't live without.

"I. . . ."

_"Tell me."_  The husky tenor demands, dropping almost to a baritone for a moment, one-two-three smacks turning heavy-handed. He squirms and ruts against nothing but air, pre-come flowing from his angry-red cock like a river carrying away the last of his pride, his identity, his control. "Don't make me ask again, or I'll leave you like this."

"No!" He is nothing but want, now. Nothing but need and fevered, crazed seeking. So it's beyond easy for him to beg, now. It's nothing to debase himself so thoroughly that even if he were in front of a mirror, he wouldn't recognize the person staring back at him.

This is oblivion of the soul.  _This_  is why he comes back, and back, and back for more.

"I deserve this because . . . because I'm bad," he says, unaware of the tears leaking down his face, of the way his voice hitches and snot drips from his rubbed-raw nose. "I deserve this because I'm stupid, and awful, and everything that went wrong on this job--on  _any_  job--is my fault."

"Yesss." Another smack, this one as firm as the others, but with an edge, a sting that makes him yelp and jump into it. "Tell me all the ways you were bad this time."

Nodding, he sniffs and rubs his nose with the back of his hand, wondering why his vision is blurred and his eyes are aching. But the curiosity is fleeting at best, and thrown over for the Litany . . . the one thing that makes them both lose control.

"It's my fault our Chemist bailed at the last minute."

"Your lies and betrayals drive everyone away, don't they?"

". . . yes. . . ."

_Smack_.

"Go on."

"It's . . . it's my fault we didn't have a Pointman to research the Mark's background. My fault we didn't know she was militarized."

"That's right. You drove Arthur away, just like you drive away everyone who isn't me, isn't that right? But we both know he'll be back. He's dog-loyal."

_SMACK_.

"Go on."

“It's my fault-- _fuck_ \--it's my fault the Mark got kicked, almost as soon as we were under."

"That, more than anything, is your fault, isn't it. You knew what would happen even before we went under, didn't you?" A smack that cracks like thunder and leaves him broken open and weeping. " _Didn't you?!!_ "

**_SMACK!_ **

" _Yes!_ " he cries out, and now the blows fall faster, harder, so continuous there's barely any refractory time between them. "All my fault, God, yes, please, mine, all mine, punish me, please, oh,  _God_ \--" he arches up hard as the spanking reaches a pitch that's unbearable before stopping altogether. But a bare second later, he's crying out as two dry, ungentle fingers press against his hole, jabbing into him almost hard enough to tear him open . . . but not quite.

"Unh!" he grunts, pushing up into stabbing, merciless thrusts even as the other hand, still warm from spanking, rubs his ass slowly, firmly, creating a slow, wicked burn that's nearly enough to send him over the edge.

Soft, full lips brush his ear for a moment--a mockery of a kiss, that whispers: " _Most of all, it's your fault that she's dead._ "

"God, no!" he wails, his heart the hand warming his ass leaves it to tangle in his hair and yank his head up so he's looking into cold, contemptuous eyes, dark with rage, just like hers had been. "No!"

" _Yes_."

"F-fuck--" he jerks once, twice, and comes harder than he has in his life . . . except for maybe the last time they did this. As soon as his body stiffens and he starts to clench around those long, unforgiving fingers, he's shoved away, onto the floor to shoot his climax into the empty air like a stray in heat.

It comes out in strings and globs, burning as it does, landing on his face, his shirt, his tie--even in his mouth, and it's as bitter as everything else about him.

Helpless, he lays there, shaking and coming until it dribbles out in fits and starts, and the only thing he wants is for it to fucking  _stop_. For everything-- _everything_ \--to finally be  _over_.

But it isn't. He lays there, drawing in breath, after searing, pointless breath, until he can open his eyes. When he does, his vision is still blurred from tears, and he wipes his face miserably, impatiently. Just outside his field of vision, someone is moving around. There's the sound of a belt being undone, then the soft, purring un-zip of old, raggedy jeans.

He tries to sit up, and can barely struggle to his elbows. When he does, the room spins a little, and a hand pulls his head back by the hair, neither gentle nor rough, just commanding and matter-of fact.

Dark doe-eyes gone hooded and hot stare into his own.

"Get up and strip. I wanna fuck."

Nodding once, with shaking fingers Dominic Cobb begins to unbutton his shirt.

 

 


End file.
